


Command Me to Be Well

by magnoliatattoo (theladyinthecape)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Study, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Golden Lace, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Very much AU, my very first multichapter, they have lots of sex later, this is a work in progress, troubled Gold, troubled lacey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 03:14:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6406432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyinthecape/pseuds/magnoliatattoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In cursed Storybrooke, rough, hotheaded Lacey and the cool, calculating Mr. Gold are inexplicably drawn to one another. Can they find happiness in their cold, lonely lives?</p><p>Golden Lace / cursed Storybrooke AU. </p><p>Nominated for Best Golden Lace in The Espenson Awards!</p><p> </p><p>Trigger warning for alcoholism and domestic violence/abuse of an adult child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Fall From Grace

**Author's Note:**

> This is very much a work in progress - I have an idea in my head but I'm not sure where I want to take it! Prompts and feedback greatly appreciated. :) Please let me know what you think! 
> 
> You can find my other work under my old name - theladyinthecape

“Lacey, Lacey… turn off your damn phone.”

She is pulled from a hard sleep by a hand shaking her shoulder and a muffled voice from the other side of the bed. Her mind, cloudy, wakes before her eyes open, and she has the faraway feeling of knowing what she needs to do before she can will herself to do it. Finally, as the ringing reaches an unbearable tenacity, she grabs her phone from the nightstand, knocking over a beer bottle she apparently opened right before passing out last night - or this morning, or whatever. Before fucking whomever lay next to her. Yes, certainly, she fucked him before passing out, but she can’t remember.

“Fuck!” She smells the beer as it spills over the side of the bed, but she’s not that upset, because luckily her phone wasn’t getting drenched in cheap, watery beer. She has missed the call in her cloudy morning-after haze, and as she rubs the sleep from her eyes she looks at the notification flashing onto the screen.

**_New voicemail from Dad_ **

Lacey drops her hand back to the bed, only now realizing the extent of her hangover. Nausea crashes over her, and she feels hot, grimey, and she has to get to the bathroom quickly. As she stumbles from the bed, she feels the activities of the previous night dripping from her core, and the slickness between her thighs makes her feel even dirtier. She glances back to see if she recognizes the body lying half-comatose in her bed, but whoever he is, she can’t tell, and she must get to the toilet now. After throwing up everything in her stomach, Lacey’s head pounds even harder, her body overheating from dehydration and the exertion of being sick, and she slides to the cool tiled floor, knowing it will help her. Soon, she will get up and drink a little water, pop a little pill, and begin her routine. She knows how to get through this morning, and as she begins to pass out there on the floor, still dirty, the evidence of last night still glistening on her upper thighs, she achieves that elusive feeling of satisfaction. She knows how hurt Daddy would be to see his princess in the state she was in; she relishes knowing the good people of Storybrooke would be so shocked at just how self-destructive Lacey French could be. She smiles, ever so slightly, and raises a weak hand to wipe the vomit and saliva from the corner of her mouth before slidingly blissfully into oblivion.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lacey doesn’t remember when she "changed," as she prefers to think of it. Truth be told, it was probably a long process over many years, but she just can’t pick the day when she gave up, and decided to not care. She suspects - well, knows - it had to have been around the time of her mother’s death, or the first time her Dad had gotten drunk, or maybe it was the first time he hit her after turning to alcohol. But she is quite sure that as a child she was normal, happy, lighthearted… smart, though… so very intelligent. She remembers her mother telling her how proud she was, how much she loved her little girl. Lacey remembers how her mother would bake her cookies for her perfect grades and brush her hair until it sparked and crackled with static electricity. But those are times passed, lives long gone. Best not to dwell on the past, Lacey believes, and she pushes those memories away, drinking them down with a chaser of IPA. She cringes with the latest sharp shooting pain in her head. The beer will help with the hangover; she is sure that she doesn’t want to listen to her father’s voicemail. And she is sure that the letter she is reading through the remnants of her hangover is complete bullshit.

_… as a result of this loss, we regret to inform you that the endowment cannot continue to subsidize your tuition for the remainder of the school year..._ She feels her lungs constrict, slightly, and her heart begins to beat faster, worsening her headache. The worry sets in, and she doesn’t immediately know what to do. She needs coffee, she decides, and a talk with her favorite professor.

An hour later, Lacey has eaten, showered, and dressed, and ready to tackle this next hurdle. She’s no stranger to adversity, no… it seems to follow her like a lost puppy, feeding on her self-loathing and poor decisions, and honestly, it is her one constant companion. Without the next problem to overcome, without the mistakes, where would she be? She quickly pushes those thoughts from her mind, though, as she walks through the lecture hall to the small office in the back. She knocks, not too loudly, but not softly either, trying to mask any signs of insecurity as she opens the door before hearing the professor ask her to come in.

“Dr. Rossi,” she says sweetly, flashing her most brilliant smile.

“Hey, Lacey,” he says, not looking up from his phone as he sends a text. She waits for him to finish, sliding her rear on the edge of the desk and swinging one leg nonchalantly. Dr. Rossi smirks as he notices her long, shapely leg, put on view for him to see. “What brings you here today? You don’t have class on Fridays.”

“I came to see my favorite professor,” she giggles, and scoots more on top of the desk, closer to him, scattering papers as she does. “You miss me on Fridays, don’t you?” Her professor’s eyes flash, annoyed that she is messing his desk, but quickly distracted by the edge of her boot rubbing slightly against the outside of his knee.

“I have office hours in 15 minutes,” he warns her, and her gaze focuses in on his face, and she knows she is making him uncomfortable. Lacey likes to make people uncomfortable.

“Plenty of time,” she whispers, spreading her legs open wider, her skirt riding up higher, offering her professor the tiniest peek of her black lace panties.

“Not now, Lacey,” he sighs, and stands up to move away, but not before Lacey notices the slight bulge in his pants. Her moment of triumph is fleeting, though, as he crosses the room, putting as much distance between himself and her as possible. Surprised at the rejection, but not wanting to show it, she quickly changes the subject.

“I got a letter today,” she begins, swallowing her nerves down. “Why didn’t you tell me they lost the endowment?”

“I only just found out myself. Inter-departmental mail. Apparently, they don’t like delivering bad news in person to even their most tenured professors,” Dr. Rossi sighs, and leans against the old radiator which clangs as it tries to heat the old, damp room. For all the experience Lacey has with disappointment, for all the control she has when faced with a problem, she can’t help but feel the anxiety creeping, stealing her composure from her, and her eyes grow wide with concern.

“Can I really lose my work study? What will happen?” Lacey doesn’t like to panic, but the thought of having to leave university is more than she can handle at the moment.

“Yes, they have pulled the funding. I lose my research grant, I lose my research assistant.” He rubs his temples. Lacey is a brilliant student, and Dr. Rossi doesn’t want to lose her, but this is his job, and he can’t risk the fight with administration right now.

“But I don’t have the money to pay for spring semester,” she says, her voice shaking and thin. Her face pales, and the anxiety grows with each thought of what will happen if she has to leave. She can’t go home. She can’t. Suddenly, a knock at the door startles Lacey from her daze of worry, and she looks at Dr. Rossi. He rubs his hands over his face, the financial problems of the history department having eclipsed anything else, and she knows now he has to focus on his undergraduate students. She knows that she was only ever a tangent… a sidebar, really, to him. She’s not concerned about that. She is concerned only about what she will do when the semester ends.

“Goodbye, Lacey,” Dr. Rossi says softly, almost apologetically, because although he knows nothing about her, he can see that Lacey is lost without her studies and her work, and now even that is gone. She tries to smile, but she can only manage a wince in his direction, knowing she was walking from this office for the last time.

Two weeks later, Lacey walks into her dingy studio apartment, flinging her back down with a flair of finality. She had pushed through the last of the semester, knowing she wasn’t coming back in January, but not wanting to close the door completely on her masters’. Maybe, just maybe, she could figure out how to get back here. Pulling off her boots and coat, she flops down on the couch, surrounded by a few cardboard moving boxes - full of nothing, really, except for her books, and one large suitcase. This is the sum of all she has in the world - in this world she’s built (or scraped together, she admits) at least. Once she returns to Storybrooke there will be so much more baggage, she knows. She lights a joint and inhales sharply. She doesn’t have to think about that yet, and she prefers not to think about it at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Robert Gold cringes as he listens to the familiar sounds of his gait… crunch, tap. crunch, tap. The walk of a broken man. He knows this is the universe’s way of reminding him of his fate, his punishment. This reminder that he literally cannot walk away from his past.

Steeling himself, he pushes open the side door to Our Lady of Sorrows, Storybrooke’s one and only church.. He doesnt’ wonder why it is the only church, or why Storybrooke needed a convent with its one and only church… it’s just the way it has been as long as he can remember. But he doesn’t like to remember, it only darkens his mind and pains his soul. He does hate collecting rent here every month.

As he walks through the chancel, the smell of incense and melted wax soothes him, and it hearkens back to a life long ago. He doesn’t go to church, never really did,  but he remembers having been here before, long before his monthly trips to collect the rent from Mother Superior. The memory is faded, hard to reach, but the mysterious smells and soft sounds of the parish bring it out, allow it to dance in the darkness of his mind, and he can’t push it out. 

“He who pleased God was loved; he who lived among sinners was transported--snatched away, lest wickedness pervert his mind or deceit beguile his soul...

Robert inhales sharply through his nose, forcing the thoughts out of his mind. No, he cannot think of that now, those thoughts are best left to the night, to his lonely nights when no one, not the saints nor God himself, can see the pain those memories cause.

He pushes open the large oak door to the sacistry and walks through the next large door to the courtyard, on his way to Mother Superior’s office, when a movement out of the corner of his eye stops him. It is a young woman, unloading flowers from the back of a van - a van he recognizes from Game of Thorns, the local flower shop inhabiting another of his buildings. Moe French must be doing slightly better, he thinks, if he has hired help recently. The idea that he would not need to threaten his tenant immediately brightens his mood.

“Mr. Gold, do come in,” Mother Superior calls from the office door, upon hearing the crunch, tap of the landlord.

“Good afternoon, Reverend Mother,” Gold says politely, but the civility does not reach to his amber eyes. 

“Hello, Robert,” she gives him a curt nod and a swift once-over. He has too many years of practice putting his guard up, and she finds no chink in his Armani suit of armor. Nothing which she could prod or guilt him with today. Or maybe, she is just growing bored of the slight but imposing landlord. Opening the lower desk drawer, she pulls out a plain white envelope and holds it out for him with steady hands and an even steadier stare.

“Mr. Gold, are you familiar with the Bible’s teachings on tithing?” she asks, knowing her answer already, but she simply cannot help herself from trying to get under the skin of the richest man in town.

“Yes, dearie, I am. However, if I were to begin such a practice, I’m afraid many tenants of mine would see a rise in their rent. Profit margins, you know…” he trails off as he snatches the envelope from her hand. 

“Then I am afraid you don’t understand at all.”

“Oh, but I do. However, should the Church reinstate the practice of indulgences, please do let me know. I know a good investment when I see one.” Gold smirks as he watches the color drain from the young nun’s face.

“Hypocrites,” he mutters as he turns toward the door to leave.

  
Gold hurries, but tries to appear not to hurry, as he makes his way through the chancel. His skin begins to itch, as it always does when he is in the church. He is not a religious man, having lost his faith and his soul so long ago he can’t even remember having one. Be that as it was, his skin still begins to itch, growing tighter the longer he stays. His head down, he almost doesn’t see the young brunette walking up the aisle on the other side, holding two large arraingments of white and red roses. She can barely see between the flowers to find her way, and does not notice him across the pews in the outer aisle. He slows and turns to watch her walk, taking in the skintight jeans with tall black leather boots up to her knees and the obviously fake leather jacket with zippers jingling as she walked. Her clothes were a stark contrast to her soft features, her chestnut curls, and he had to stop a gasp as she bent over to place one of the arrangements at the foot of the eucharist altar. 

Gold stares, entranced, as she fiddles with the arrangements. Her eyes were large and wide set, her skin pale against her dark hair, and she was a vision in devastating contrasts. 

“Fuck!” she gasps, and pulls her index finger to her mouth, obviously having pricked it on the roses. Her eyes look up as she sucks in her finger to quell the bleeding and suddenly, powerfully, locks eyes with Gold.

After a moment, or an hour, or something, Gold still cannot pull his gaze from her eyes. He can tell they are blue even from across the large room. Finally, those eyes glint and she pulls her finger from her mouth, kneading a small drop of blood to the surface, and without breaking eye contact, wipes it on the pure white altar cloth. She flashes him a smile that could tempt the Devil himself and stalks through the aisle, leaving, and not giving him one more thought.

Gold turns as she passes him, and his skin begins to tingle. He knows everyone in this town, but he has no idea who she was. He becomes lightheaded as his mind’s eye tries to place those eyes.. those blue, bright, familiar eyes. Who is she?

 

Back at his shop, Gold pours another glass of Blue Label and runs his hands over his face. He has taken apart some new clock that had come in some weeks ago - he will fix it, restore it, make it better than new. Unfortunately, he only can do that for the clock - the desperate soul parting with her grandmother’s antiques was a different story. He had given her a fair price, but they never feel as though it were fair. If only the simpletons in Storybrooke realized he didn’t pay for sentimental value.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Lacey slams the door to the delivery truck after parking it in the alley behind Game of Thorns. Not one delivery customer of her father’s flower shop tips, and while she didn’t expect to make much extra that day, something would have been nice. Not a big deal, she thinks, but she still longs for a little appreciation. Perhaps she is being selfish. God knows she hasn't always appreciated what she has (or had.) She digs into the front pocket of her jeans and pulls out the soft pack of Marlboro Lights, pulling the last crumpled cigarette out and lighting it with her silver Zippo. One long drag and she can feel the toxicity fill her lungs, the satisfying burning sensation as she momentarily holds her breath before exhaling completely. 

 

Lacey closes her eyes and leans back against the rear door of the shop, not wanting to go upstairs just yet, hoping to allow herself a few moments of relative calm before seeing her father. She turns her head toward the road as she hears voices - male voices - deep and loud and not at all intelligent. 

 

Keith Nottigham and Will Scarlet walk past the alley entrance, and Keith notices her standing there. 

 

“Hey, Lacey! What are you doing here?” Keith stops on the sidewalk, and turns fully to face Lacey.  _ Fuck _ , she thinks. It seems that there is no end to happenstance encounters today. 

 

“Working,” she replies back, tilting her head to him slightly to mind his presence only enough to not appear completely rude.

 

“Weren’t you at school? When did you get back?” Keith begins to walk over, as his companion lingers on the main street. “Will, why do you go ahead and order me a pint? Be there in a minute…” he yells over his shoulder as he nears Lacey. 

 

“I was at at school, and I got back here two days before Christmas,” Lacey replies, matter-of-factly, as she looks down to tap the ash off her cigarette. “I’m taking a semester off to help Dad,” she lies, but it’s only mostly a lie.

 

“Well, I’m certainly happy to see you,” Keith surls, not at all trying to hide the fact he was checking her out from head to toe. Actually, from breast to toe. Lacey wonders if he ever looks above women’s necks. 

 

“Yeah?” She asks, dropping the cigarette and stamping it out under her boot. “How happy?” She asks, smiling sweetly but there was no innocence on her face. Keith had always been around to help her feel… not better, but not worse… he made her feel something, at least for a little bit, which was far more than she could say for most people.

 

Keith hooks his index finger in a belt loop of her jeans and tugs her toward him. Placing his hand on her ass, he grinds against her as she begins to straddle his thigh. The friction sent a wave of heat through her jeans and between her legs, and she raised a brow at him. 

 

“Oh, I think you know you turn me on,” Keith tries to be seductive, Lacey thinks, but he rarely, if ever, succeeds. Certainly now, in an alley, the statement that she “turned him on” was the last thing to turn her on, but she kept playing the game anyway. 

 

Feeling him hardening through his jeans, Lacey rolled her hips and ground against him, rubbing her crotch on his thigh, feeling the warmth begin to spread throughout her body. Sounds in the background kept reminding her of what she should be doing, which only served to commit her more to the half-hearted snog in the alley. It was at the very least a distraction, something that took up five minutes before she had to face her reality.

 

Lacey dodges Keith’s kiss, offering her neck instead, as his hand comes under her jacket to knead her left breast. It felt fine, good, even, if she closed her eyes to the man doing it to her. She allows her hand to wander to his belt buckle, tugging a little, and deftly unbuckles his pants, reaching down to stroke him inside his clothes. Wanting to stretch this tangential encounter a bit more, she nuzzles closer to Keith and he begins kissing her neck - roughly, and without finesse, and to enjoy it a little, she must squeeze her eyes and think of someone else. 

 

Lacey gasped as the face that her mind called forth stared back at her with warm, brown, sad eyes.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“Lacey!” 

 

She closes her eyes when she hears the loud bellow from downstairs. Pulled from the solitary bliss of her bath and book, she pretends that she didn’t hear her father calling for her.

 

“LACEY!”

  
“One minute!” she calls back, her mood soured, her inner peace - what little she can find these days - shatters into a resentful anxiety. Her father was home, expecting dinner, before leaving for his drunk friends and the drunk bar that calls him every drunken night, until the wee hours of every drunken morning.

 

Toweling off, Lacey dresses hurriedly and walks into the kitchen.

 

“Where’s dinner?” Maurice French asks, abruptly.  _ Well, hello to you too _ … Lacey thinks. While she is used to not being much more than the help around the house, some inkling that he cared for her more than what she could just provide for him would be nice once in a while. Pushing those feelings aside, she greets her father while pulling leftover chili out of the refridgerator.

 

“Hey, Dad. Just leftovers tonight. I haven’t been to the store in a few days.”

 

“I don’t want to eat that slop again! Why don’t we have any fucking food in this fucking house?” He yells at her, causing her to jump and the anxiety well up from her stomach to her throat.

 

“We have $300 in the bank and power is due next week,” she yells back, defending herself in this battle already lost. 

 

“Don’t raise your voice to me, young lady,” her father threatens, moving in toward her, attempting to intimidate her into submission, as if his actions would magically right the world, or cause the food to simply appear.

 

“Dad, this is all we have. It’s what I am having.” she says, resignedly, softly, hoping to de-escalate the situation. She is not afraid of her father, per se, but the man in front of her is not her father - her true father died eleven years ago, moments after cancer claimed her mother. 

 

“Fuck this. You’re worthless, Lacey,” he spits, grabbing his beaten up windbreaker and cap and turning for the door. 

 

It’s not the first time Lacey has heard those words - no, the feelings Maurice French held for his daughter were no secret. Over the years she heard them so much that she began to believe them. Her time at school had started to change her mind, though… there she found that she was worth something - anything - to her classmates, to her professors, to herself. With that now gone, and little chance of returning to college, tears spring to Lacey’s eyes as she wonders if it was all a dream, and maybe she is simply worth nothing to anyone in this world.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it has taken so long to update! Real life gets in the way sometimes. Anyway - on with the story. :) Comments, questions, prompts? Please comment or find me on Tumblr!

 

Thunder rattles the window the next morning, pulling him out of a fitful slumber. Robert pinches the bridge of his nose before opening his eyes. The weather and his lack of sleep the night before do not a good day make, and he dry swallows two aspirin before even getting out of bed. His leg stiff, he limps toward the master bathroom and splashes cold water on his face. The shock of the cold water causes him to gasp and he supports himself against the marble counters with both hands, and as the sting of the icy water relaxes into a refreshing coolness he lifts his head and gazes into the ornate antique mirror.

He recognizes every line in his thin, angular face. He knows every crease, each strand of greying hair, but somehow - he never seems to recognize himself. As though each time he sees his reflection it is someone else; someone he used to know… “Fuck,” he sighs, sensing the brand new melancholy that begins each brand new day. He closes his eyes, wanting to feel something - anything - other than this.

The hair on the back of his neck tingles as his mind forms an image he has never once seen before. Cerulean blue eyes staring intently into his own; flames of a well tended fire dancing in the reflective pools of wide irises. Robert Gold’s blood runs cold as the image grows more intense and then all of a sudden vanishes, as though someone had stopped the film, shut down the lights and slammed the doors. As if it was never there to begin with.

Robert opens his eyes, refocusing on his own face, that face he knows so well and not at all. He smirks at his reflection.

“I’m going crazy,” he mutters out loud, to himself. “Absolutely fucking nuts…” he continues, splashing more water, standing up straighter, happier now that he realizes it must be simply the beginnings of senility that cause him to imagine such things. At least it was an acceptable theory.

 

~~~~~~

 

Lacey steps out into the cold air, the frigid wind in her face helping to clear her head from the wine she had the night before. It felt good, the biting cold, and she pulled the door closed behind her and started the walk towards Granny’s diner. There was still no food in the house, and still no money in the bank, but she had cash that she had managed to keep hidden from her father. Not much, but enough to buy booze and cigarettes and a cup of coffee and perhaps a pastry.

For a fleeting moment, Lacey feels immensely guilty about what she is doing to herself. She knows she is dangerously close to the same path that her father took - the one that lost him to her forever. She knows there are better ways to cope than alcohol and drugs. She knows the cigarettes are likely to kill her. She wants to be better - she wants to be happy. She just doesn’t know how.

Tears begin to well in her eyes, _but that’s just the wind causing that_ \- yes, the cold wind stinging her eyes and the tears are simply a physical reaction to the stimulus. Or so she thinks. Keeping her head down, so the wind won’t bother her or so people won’t see her tears, either way - she turns to start up the steps to the diner, and does not notice the impeccably dressed gentleman about to do the same.

“Wha--” she shrieks and jumps, missing the first step completely, as her ankle, unsteady already in her black heeled boots, buckles underneath her from the unanticipated misstep. Landing unceremoniously on her ass, she blinks, noticing fine wool trousers breaking perfectly over fine Italian-leather loafers, the steel tip of an ebony wood cane grinding into the cement. She follows the sleek line of the cane with her eyes, taking in the ordinary man above her, until she reached his face, hidden slightly by his long wispy hair being blown across his cheek by the wind.

“What the fuck, dude?” Lacey fronts, her tough girl act not fooling anyone, not even herself, save for her pride.

“You should watch where you are going, dearie,” the man says, coolly, calmly. Too composed for Lacey, and she juts her chin out slightly as her indignation creeps in.

“And you are rude!” she begins, brushing the dirt and rubble from her palms as she attempts to get up.

“Here, let me help you,” the man says, warmly now, now that he has firmly established his cold, calculating presence, he allows himself to show a bit of humanity. He offers his hand to help her up.

Lacey takes it, not because she needs it, as she is perfectly fine, but she is overwhelmed with the need to touch that hand, to know if it is warm, to feel the skin of his palm against hers. Her brow furrows as she realizes this, slowly sliding her fingers into his hand, applying pressure to let him know to firm his grip around hers, and as he holds her steady, she rises slowly, eyes locked with his.

The moment feels _more_ than any other moment she has ever known. Rising up to her feet, she allows him to pull her to fully standing, yet they do not let go of each other’s hand. It feels too good, Lacey thinks, to simply be an offer of help. The skin of his palm is warm, smooth, comforting. His face, drawn up against the wind and the situation, softens slightly, and she immediately recognizes those eyes.

“You’re the guy from the church,” she blurts out, surprised at the shaky timbre of her own voice. Everything is intense right now, and she is afraid she might be overwhelmed by the sensations of his gaze, his hand, and the storm around them. She trembles slightly, and his brows shoot up in alarm.

“Let’s get you inside,” he says, dropping her hand and taking her elbow instead, and leads her up the steps. Lacey can’t seem to pull her eyes from his face, not until he must cross behind her to open the door for her. She steps inside the warm, cozy diner in a rush of sensation and cold, bitter wind, and is momentarily lost as to what to do next.

She feels his hand against her lower back, gently urging her toward the counter to take a seat, and her skin tingles, starting from his hand and traveling up her spine, the shock of realizing that this is the most familiar feeling in the world to her, right now, and she surrenders to him, allowing him to lead her.

  
~~~~~~~

Ruby Lucas watches with concerned amusement as the scene unfolds before her. She is watching over her customers in booths and at the counter, paying little attention to what they need and more to her chipped nail polish. However, her former high school friend colliding with the town monster was a sight not to be missed, and she watched with smirk as the old man actually stopped to help the young woman. Perhaps he is braver than I thought, Ruby smiles to herself, grabbing two mugs and a fresh pot of coffee to bring to the counter.

She had heard Lacey was back in town, but hadn’t spoken to her yet, years of separation while Lacey was away at college and feelings of jealousy toward her former friend for actually getting the fuck out of Storybrooke took a toll on their friendship, and Ruby honestly couldn’t remember the last words they had said to each other before she left. Hell, she didn’t even remember her leaving.

“Hey, Lacey, you okay?” Ruby asks as she pours coffee for the ill-matched pair at the counter.

“Ruby?” Lacey asks, still confused from the fall and everything that happened after. Well, nothing really happened after, she thinks, but it felt like everything had happened in that moment, and that nothing would be the same after.

“”Yep, it’s me!” Ruby exclaimed, her voice too happy, too excited, and she tries to cover her nervousness with a smile. “Long time no see,” she says, as she turns to pour a cup for Gold.

“Yeah,” Lacey trails off, unsure of what to say. They had been friends before she left, she and Ruby, as they were both the sort of misfits that are drawn to each other. Both intelligent, beautiful girls, both independent with dreams and desires and the smarts to actually succeed at fulfilling both. But she had left and Ruby hadn’t, and that had created a wall between them, a wall that had only grown taller over the years. _Exactly how many years had that been?_ Lacey begins to wonder when she is pulled from her reverie by a warm brogue next to her.

“I’ll take a streudel to go, Ms. Lucas,” the man says to the lanky waitress, “and please, whatever the young lady wants.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Lacey begins, but Robert raises his hand to stop her mid-sentence.

“Please, allow me. I am truly sorry for running into you,” he says, but with a smirk, and Lacey realizes he believes the whole mishap to be her fault. Her traitorous stomach growls, though, at that moment, and she thinks twice before declining his offer once again.

“Thank you, Mr…”

“Gold. Robert Gold.” he says, taking the white paper bag Ruby hands him with his breakfast, and laying a $20 bill on the counter.

“Have a nice day, Ms. French. Ms. Lucas.” he nods a quick goodbye to both the young women, and turns on his heel to leave, moving too swiftly and much too confidently for a man who walked with a cane, and leaving two wide-eyed women in his wake.

“Ruby?” Lacey asks, slowly turning on her stool to face the tall brunette, “was that _the_ Mr. Gold?”

“Yep,” Ruby says, matter-of-factly, still processing the events of the last ten minutes, the shock of seeing her friend, which paled in comparison to the shock of seeing Mr. Gold actually help another human, which in turn paled in comparison again to the shock of watching him buy a meal for someone else. She turns and smiles genuinely at Lacey, amused at the morning, and maybe Lacey coming back wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe Storybrooke wouldn’t be so boring - so monotonous - with Lacey back in town.

“Welcome home, Lace.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a challenge, and I hope I achieved what I set out to accomplish. Poor Lacey.
> 
> Thank you, as always, to my amazing beta MarieQuiteContrarie.

“Oy, Keith! Absinthe!” Ruby Lucas leans over the bar, the dark mahogany wood sticky from age and liquor. She giggles as Keith ogles her cleavage, the dark valley between her breasts accented by the deep plunge of her red lace top. She wouldn’t get the shots for free, no…she wouldn’t want them to be free, but she likes toying with Keith and it always helped to throw the greasy bartender a bone when there was a line for drinks. Truth be told, she had no interest in him, or really any other man in Storybrooke, but it was a fun game to play. She knew the power she could wield over them, a power granted to her by nothing more than DNA, good genes, and great legs. She didn’t have to work for it, and it bored her. Keith places the shots in front of Ruby as Lacey saunters up beside her.

“Absinthe, Rubes?” She giggles, casting a side glance a Keith. The cheap wine they had before leaving Ruby’s apartment over the diner had her in a wonderfully buzzed state - her skin felt electric, her head cool, her intentions less than virtuous.

“This is for you, Lace, welcome home!” Ruby exclaims as she throws her head back, drinking down the shot in one gulp, smiling as she comes back up. Lacey watches her friend take the shot easily, and although she has never tried absinthe, she never passes up a good time. She brings the glass to her lips, tilting it so that the full cleft of her upper lip captures a drop to taste. Her lip darts out, swiping the liquid and feeling the alcohol already tingling her taste buds. She throws the anise-flavored spirit back, exposing her throat, surprised to feel the burn of tongue and teeth beneath her ear.

“Ow! Ruby!” Lacey cries, pulling her head up as she swallows the shot, the strong liquor warming her throat and stomach as it coats her inside. The quick heat of the absinthe fades fast, but the nibble on her neck warms her in other ways, lower in her core and with a slow burn. While she doesn’t generally seek out the company of other women, pleasure is pleasure, and she needs to feel good tonight. Throwing Ruby a sultry look, she slams the shot glass down in front of Keith.

“Keep those coming,” she says, and turns away to walk to the jukebox, feeling two pairs of eyes follow her. The shot fuels her confident stride and she knows just how good her ass looks in her black lace miniskirt.

Intent on finding the perfect song to fit her mood, Lacey doesn’t notice Robert Gold limp up to the bar and motion for Keith to bring him the week’s rent.

~~~~

“It’s all there,” Nottingham says defensively. He might not be the brightest man in Storybrooke, but he knows better than to cheat Robert Gold.

“I’ve never shorted you before,” he insists, indignant yet powerless against his landlord.

“To be certain, dearie,” Gold snarls, leafing through the bills in the white envelope. “But we all make mistakes, don’t we?” He meets Keith’s stare, his gaze menacing, confident, aloof. His mistakes are of a different nature than those of most others in Storybrooke. He knows the secrets of almost everyone in town, including those of the barkeep, who had been indebted to him for years after needing his services as his attorney after getting himself arrested in a trivial drug deal gone wrong. _No_ , Gold thinks, a moment of guilt passing over the disdain and contempt for his audience, _my mistakes are far grander, I’m sure_.

A squeal across the bar catches their attention, and landlord and tenant turn toward the pool tables. Ruby Lucas is sliding a pool stick up her friend Lacey French’s inner thigh. The cue slowly disappears under the nothing of a skirt Lacey’s bouncing around in. Lacey straightens, whipping around, and as she turns to confront her friend, Robert’s eyes lock with hers. His heart stops momentarily and his blood runs cold, ice running through his veins. Some force, some _thing_ he cannot explain draws him to her, locks him in her presence. He knows who she is, this is small-town Storybrooke, after all, but for some reason, he _knows_ her. Memories of her are struggling to break through the fog of the last few decades, images and feelings bubbling up in his mind and in his heart, and he is sure he is going crazy. It’s an odd, uncomfortable feeling, but he relishes it all the same, his traitorous eyes unwilling to turn away from the scene. He wants to stop looking, he wants to flee, but he is frozen, unable to move, unable to do anything but look at her and _feel_.

Lacey gasps. Her palms begin to sweat, and her heart races as she stares back at Robert Gold. Suddenly, the atmosphere becomes mysterious, unknown. Dangerous. Her plans for a night of drinking and laughing and sex and fun are replaced with something she couldn’t have predicted, but she knows, deep in her soul, it will be beyond anything she could imagine or comprehend. Lacey slides down off the pool table, subdued and confused. Each time she encounters Mr. Gold is like a horrible car crash - sudden, violent, and overwhelming. It reminds her of something, something she assumes must have roots in her violent relationship with her father, because God knows he is the only other man in this world that could make her feel this terrible. Picking up her beer, she walks to the high-top table by the wall, gulps down several swallows and attempts to compose herself, trying to get back to the carefree mood she was in moments ago, trying to forget all about Mr. Gold.

“Hey, Lacey, you okay?” Ruby turns to her, a concerned look crossing her face, and walks over.

“I’m fine,” Lacey replies, forcing a smile.

“I’m just gonna sit this one out.” She motions to the pool table.

“Suit yourself. You sure you are okay?”

“Oh yeah. I’m just gonna go get another drink,” Lacey pulls a cigarette out and lights it as she makes her way back to the bar.

~~~~

Robert Gold slumps onto the nearest stool, not quite sitting but quite unable to stand. Exhaling a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, he wonders for a moment if he just had a heart attack - everything hurts, his muscles are like jelly, and he fears he might collapse under the weight of his small frame.

“Keith,” he calls to the bartender who had returned to pouring drinks for other customers, “give me a scotch. Neat. Make it a double.”

Wordlessly, Keith pours the amber liquor into a glass in front of Gold, and something catches his eye as he finishes.

“Hey Lacey, what’ll it be?” he asks.

“I’ll take one of those,” she replies, and Gold turns to his right, watching her slide into the barstool at the end. Seated, her skirt rides up, granting him a view of every inch of her pale, toned legs. He allows himself a millisecond of indulgence, as she is beautiful. Fragile, but tough; womanly but immature.

Keith pours her double scotch, a smirk of amusement playing on his shadowed face as he pushes the glass toward her.

“Thirty-two bucks,” he says, and Lacey’s eyes grow wide, having never paid that for a drink before in her life. “What the fuck?” she says, attempting to hide her embarrassment with indignation. “Does it have gold in it? Forget it; I’ll just have a beer.”

“Keith,” Robert Gold says above the din of the bar, “put it on my tab.”

“No, you don’t have to do that,” Lacey protests. Drinks come with expectations, and she knows better than to be indebted to Mr. Gold.

“Nonsense, I insist,” Robert says pleasantly, a genuine smile illuminating his dark features. He pulls out his wallet, fishes out several bills, and lays them on the counter. “It’s worth the money. Very smooth. Much better than the swill Keith usually pours here,” he says, confident as usual when he is hiding behind his money.

“Besides, I was just leaving. Goodnight, Ms. French.”

Lacey watches, eyes wide, as Robert Gold limps out of the bar. He moves with astounding grace for a crippled man, she thinks, and for all the rumors of his evil shrewdness, this is the second time he has picked up her tab. Never with any voiced expectations or unwanted advances; his actions seem to be that of a gentleman - but, really, she laughs to herself, how would I know a gentleman? She cannot fathom the expectations he must have of her, and it frightens her.

~~~~~

“Last call, Lacey,” Keith says, and Lacey tries to focus on him. Her night of fun has been spent in the very same seat where Gold bought her scotch, drinking one after the other after the other. She has no idea how many she’s had.

“Wait…what? What time is it?” She blinks her burning eyes.

“Closing time, Lace. Don’t you remember? Ruby split an hour ago with Will,” Keith says.

“Fuck,” Lacey says, trying to stand up gracefully, to not let her drunken state show too much. She needs to pee, so she hobbles to the ladies’ room on unsteady feet, the high heels of her boots her excuse to herself for her stagger. She makes it to the bathroom, swaying, stepping into a stall and falling onto the toilet. She is dizzy, the room spins, and she places a hand on the side of the stall, trying to stop the room from spinning, hoping not to puke in the bathroom. Somehow, she rights her clothes and steps back into the bar. The bright glare of the fluorescent lights blinds her, and she steps back, staggering and struggling to keep her balance. Lacey knows that lights on mean the bar is closed, and she must make her way somewhere… home, she supposes, resigned to the letdown of the evening and the regret she knows she will feel in the morning.

“Lacey, let me give you a ride home,” Keith says, watching her struggle to get her coat on. “No way, asshole,” she retorts, as belligerent as she can be, slurring her words and unable to focus on his not-so-impressive face.

“How are you getting home?” he asks, and if he was genuinely concerned, she wouldn’t believe it.

“I’ll walk.”

“You will freeze your ass off out there,” Keith replies. “Come on, Lacey, I’ll keep you warm,” he says as he steps closer, trying to wrap his arms around her tiny waist. She pushes him away in disgust. She’ll never be _that_ drunk.

“Fine, Lacey. Have it your way.” He holds the door open for her, and the blast of cold air hits her face, refreshing her, and she is emboldened to make it home on her own. _It’s not far_ , she reasons. _I can make it_. She begins her trek, and her feet feel heavy; leaden weights slowing her down and causing her to trip and stumble on the icy sidewalk. Deciding it must be the heels causing the problem, Lacey leans against a lamppost, pulling her faux leather boots off, sure that doing so will only help her get home faster. Boots in hand, and feet in thin boot socks, she starts back on her way, slipping on the icy path in her sock feet.

The cold quickly seeps through the thin material, and soon her toes are burning from the cold, frostbite setting in on her smallest extremities. Her head is beginning to pound and the cold wind is blasting her fragile skin. Lacey starts to panic, because even though her home is only a half-mile away, she doesn’t have the faith in herself to make it - she never has, and so she does what she always does - she gives up, she gives in, and looks for a suitable place to take cover. Two doors down she sees lights on in a store, and although she has the presence of mind to know that it likely isn’t open, maybe someone there could help her - let her warm up inside, or give her a ride.

She reaches the covered doorway, shaking, shivering, and crying. Everything hurts, and everything is a bad idea. Not knowing what to do, she bangs on the glass window, rattling the shade behind it. Waiting. Minutes or hours, she doesn’t know how long, and nobody answers. She is freezing. Desperately, she slams her hand one more time on the glass, and slumps to her knees in the small space by the door not covered in snow, hoping that she passes out quickly, hoping to not feel anything anymore. Her body shakes and her head throbs as a sob wrecks her body, but no tears flow. Those had dried up years ago, she had cried them all when her mother died, and she has none left to give. She takes a deep breath, willing sleep to come, and leans her head against the door. Her last thought, as she surrenders to her self-destruction, is to wonder whose door this is, who would find her in the morning.

As her eyes sink closed, she silently apologizes to the poor soul whose burden she would become.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to MarieQuiteContrarie for all the editing, I'm so grateful for her!

Robert winces at each _crunch, tap, crunch, tap_ of his feet and cane. Limping along the sidewalk in the ice and slush and salt, he is ashamed. Ashamed of his disability, ashamed that he is going back to work instead of home, ashamed that there is no one person expecting, needing, or wanting him to be somewhere on a Saturday evening.

It wasn’t always like that, he thinks as he makes his way around the last corner before his shop. He once had a wife, a son. A beautiful life that he did not deserve was his once upon a time, and as the painful memories of the night they were taken from him fill his mind, he reaches the door, thankful for the distraction, appreciating that he has work to pull him from the quicksand of his painful past.

Pulling the keys from his pocket, he shivers as he unlocks the front door to his pawnshop. Here, he could relax; he could breathe, he could fix things. He can’t do that anywhere else, and so for more years than he can remember the pawnshop in the middle of town has been his sanctuary; where he could disappear among the trinkets and antiques, where he could be proud, and almost happy, where he could do what he was unable to do so many years before.

He removes his coat and gloves once inside, placing them neatly on the coat rack beside the front door. Locking the deadbolt, he limps to the back of the shop, turning the lights on as he passes. He loves the way the light reflects on the many items in the glass cases, the way the soft glow of the recessed bulbs illuminate the unicorn mobile hanging in the main room. It reminds him of a time where he had light in his life, and it reminds him of his child, taken from him so many years ago. The memories are all he has, so he clings to them, not willing to let them die. It hurts, the constant reminders of everything he has lost, but they are all he has. The pain of the memories hurts, but pain is a true companion, the closest thing he has to a friend. It will never leave him, and it is comfortable, this pain. Pain won’t leave him, it will not forsake him. Pain doesn’t die.

Placing a tea kettle on the electric hot plate in the back room, he selects his favorite herbal blend from a drawer in his desk. Placing the bag into the pot, he can already smell the warm, comforting aroma of turmeric and ginger, the familiar scent soothing his mind and warming his body. Tonight he will polish the silver set of the older gentleman who had been in to sell it not two days ago, having lost his wife long ago, and who told him it was time for someone else to have it, to make use of it. But Robert knows better. He could see the desperation in the man’s face, and knew the money would be going to booze and smokes and probably everywhere else than where it should be used. He had given him a fair price, but not a good price, mostly because Mr. Gold is not a good man.

~~~~~

Robert smiles to himself as he places the last spoon back into the silverware chest. The set is exquisite, the mahogany chest lined in royal blue velvet, accented with yellow ribbon tie downs for the larger pieces. The set itself was It’s a magnificent and complete tea set, and he had been surprised that the former owner— a broken, ugly man—owned something so lovely and valuable. But now it belongs to him, and Mr. Gold is well pleased.. He sighs contentedly and pulls out his pocket watch to check the time. Almost 2 am; with the wind and frigid temperatures outside, Mr. Gold decides to spend another night on the cot in the back. It is actually quite comfortable, and he looks forward to lying under the old, thick quilts amongst all his possessions, like a dragon hoarding his treasure.

As he turns the blankets down and toes off his shoes, the wind rattles the windows in the front of his shop. Startled by the strength of the gust, he peers out the windows of the back door. He can feel the cold creeping through the old wood. Remembering that all the lights in the storefront are still on, he hobbles through the back room, leaving his cane beside the cot. As he steps into the lit room, a single loud bang startles him. The front door shakes causing the bell to clang. For a moment he thinks he is about to be robbed.

No other sound but the whistle of the wind meets his ears, and he peers between the slats of the window shade, seeing nothing in the pitch dark. Glancing down he sees a woman’s boot lying on the sidewalk - black, heeled, not at all suited for January in Maine. Suddenly his blood runs as cold as the wind against the door, and he pulls it open to investigate further. He is shocked to find Lacey French, unconscious, shoeless, and curled up in the corner of the entryway like a stray cat seeking shelter.

Robert springs into action, adrenaline fueling his efforts, and picks Lacey up in his arms. He grants half a thought to his bad knee and ankle, he doesn’t feel them. The knowledge of them is but a brief concern as he carries the small, cold girl into the shop. Stepping around the curtain that separates his workroom from the showroom, he gently lowers Lacey to the cot, removing her soaked boot socks and her thin leather jacket. Her feet are red, her toes whitish where the skin has frozen, but the rest of her skin burns hot from a deadly combination of alcohol, freezing temperatures, and dehydration.

“Oh my God,” Robert sighs, the immediate danger of Lacey French freezing to death having been averted. He sits on the side of the cot, rubbing his hands over his face, unsure of what to do next. _Water_ , he thinks, _she needs water_. He fumbles with the tea kettle, pouring some of the lukewarm water leftover into a teacup. The warm water will be good, he imagines, as he slides one arm under her shoulders to lift her to a seated position. He brings the cup to her dry, chapped lips, still stained red with lipstick, though the shine has long since disappeared.

“Drink, sweetheart,” he whispers, not expecting her to hear him, but he is desperately trying to get some fluids in her, to warm her, to care for her.

Lacey’s eyes open slowly, halfway, and she looks at him for a long moment. She sips the water, wincing as her lips crack around the delicate porcelain of the teacup. After the first sip, she smiles at him. It is only a small smile, but it reaches her eyes and lights up her entire face. A smile full of warmth, and Robert realizes she recognizes him, knows who he is.

“Thank you, Rumple.”

His brow furrows at her words, not understanding what she says, and he realizes she must still be drunk, and likely in shock. At that moment, though, she brings a hand to his cheek, her cold fingers snapping him out of his thoughts as she strokes his cheekbone once before her hand falls back to the cot.

“I knew you would find me,” she whispers, and her eyes flutter shut and her head rolls back as unconsciousness claims her once more. Robert slowly lowers the girl back to the cot, dismissing her words as nonsense, and pulls two quilts over her. He stands up and hobbles to the desk chair, lets out a long breath that he has been holding since discovering her at his front door, and runs his hands through his hair. _Now what_ , he thinks, as he stares at the beautiful and damaged girl sleeping it off in the back of his pawn shop.

~~~~

After a few hours of fitful sleep in the chair, Robert decides to get up and make some tea. The small area is chilly, but the early morning sun is starting to warm the space, illuminating the ever-present dust in the air, tiny sparks floating around him. He leans his shoulder against the entry frame, a look of concerned bewilderment shadowing his face. He watches her sleep, nestled underneath layers of quilts, her steady breathing the only movement in the room. The sunlight peeking through the small window catches her chestnut hair, lighting it like fire, flames licking her cheeks and temples. She looks young - younger than the hard years she has lived, he thinks.

Lacey begins to cough, a rough, wet cough that causes her to sit up. Robert crosses the room in one stride, bringing the wastebasket to the side of the bed. Lacey begins to choke, and he grasps her slender shoulder to lean her over the side, catching her sick in the basket. Lacey moans, never opening her eyes, and Robert gently lays her back down to the cot, wiping her lips then her brow with a cool, damp cloth. He imagines the heat from her skin to be from dehydration, so he takes an ice cube and runs it over the seam of her mouth, letting the drips from the melting ice slide between her dry lips. Her tongue darts out to taste the cool water, and she shifts in the bed, still not opening her eyes, still half drunk and still unconscious.

“Sweet girl,” Robert says out loud, knowing she can’t hear him. “Why are you doing this to yourself?” He wonders what exactly drives her self-destruction. Pain? Neglect? He is no stranger to those. But he is an old, wretched, soulless man. This beauty before him, what could she possibly know of pain? What darkness could have taken hold in her few years? He cups her cheek, wanting to comfort her broken soul, then pulls back, hand shaking, as a static shock erupts from his fingertip.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And when one of them meets with his other half, the actual half of himself, whether he be a lover of youth or a lover of another sort, the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and one will not be out of the other's sight, as I may say, even for a moment: these are the people who pass their whole lives together, and yet they could not explain what they desire of one another. For the intense yearning which each of them has towards the other does not appear to be the desire of lover's intercourse, but of something else which the soul of either evidently desires and cannot tell, and of which she has only a dark and doubtful presentiment."  
> \--- Aristophanes's Speech from Plato's Symposium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the fluff, dearies. :)

Regina Mills sits behind the desk in her office, looking over the glossy pages of the most recent request to cross her desk, one for the refurbishment of the dilapidated Storybrooke Library. The proposal for the project is well thought out, impressively detailed, and not quite as expensive as she would have thought when the group of concerned citizens had presented it at the last town council meeting.

She smirks as she remembers the elementary school teacher, Mary Margaret Blanchard, opining as to how this would improve the life of Storybrooke’s inhabitants, adults and children alike.

 _Oh, if she only knew,_ Regina thought to herself as she stamps DENIED in big, red letters across the front of the thick proposal.

“Peasants,” she mutters under her breath, pushing her chair back from the desk. She rises, stretching in relief as she crushes yet another glimmer of hope amongst her subjects. Walking to the mirror on the far side of her office, she smooths hair that has not fallen out of place, checks her makeup, and smiles at her own reflection. She strokes the ornate frame of the mirror, the familiar smoothness of the gilded wood reassuring her that everything was exactly the way it should be, and she cackles in delight as she relishes another day in her new kingdom.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Blanchard,” Regina play acts her response into the mirror. “But Storybrooke is not a wealthy town. We simply do not have the funds to reopen the library.” Regina spins around, elated to be crushing yet another dream of the young teacher. As she turns, she becomes dizzy, her balance failing as the black and white walls appear to liquefy around her. She falls to the floor, breathless, the cool marble soothing her hot flesh as fear courses through her veins and rage builds in her core.

Something is going very, very wrong, she realizes, pushing herself to stand. She smooths her skirt, and turns on her heel, determined to get answers from the only man in town who will have them.

~~~~~~

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Lacey wakes to the sound of blood rushing through her ears, the throbbing in her head keeping pace with the waves of nausea crashing through her stomach. She is hot, sweating under heavy blankets, and before opening her eyes she throws them off, realizing she is still clothed in last night’s get-up.

Her head pounding, she tries to open her eyes, to get a sense of where she is, because she is certain she’s not lying in her own bed. Her eyes are sticky, glued together by tears and cheap mascara, and as she grinds her knuckles against them, the exertion makes her head feel like it’s been whacked by a sledgehammer. She sucks in a breath, holding it for a moment, and slowly exhales, trying to calm her stomach as she tries to right her brain.

Suddenly, violently, memories of last night flood her senses and she shoots up in bed, turns to the side, and vomits. As she empties her stomach of the last of the alcohol and water, she falls back to the pillows, her head splitting wide open, so painful she is not able to move, or to even make a sound. She hears a shuffle, coming from somewhere far away, and suddenly the cot mattress sinks to one side; someone is sitting on the edge of the small bed.

Lacey slowly turns her head to look at last night’s companion. She is accustomed to waking up and not knowing the guy’s name, or not remembering exactly how she got where ever she was, but this is different.

For one thing, she is fully clothed.

Lacey gasps as she recognizes the man sitting next to her. Struggling, she pulls herself to her elbows, the pain in her head all but forgotten until she moves.

“I - I…” she starts, not knowing what to say, and too embarrassed to ask. “Where am I?” she pleads, her voice small, because although she has some clue as to where she is - she is completely at a loss as to how she arrived here. Her defenses are down, she is dirty and smelly and sprawled on her back, and Mr. Gold is sitting next to her, watching every humiliating move.

“You’re in the back room of my pawn shop,” Robert says quietly, not wanting to startle her or add to her discomfort.

Lacey finally looks at his face, and sees concern in his eyes. He has placed a silver tray on the table next to the cot. Steam is rising from a bowl, accompanied by a small, porcelain tea kettle and a single tea cup.

“Yes, but how did I get here?” Lacey asks, trying to piece together her memories from last night, none of which offer a satisfactory explanation of exactly how she wound up sleeping in Gold’s bed. “Did we, uh…” she trails off, motioning between the two of them, the universal phrasing and gesture of _did we fuck last night or what_ bringing a small smile to Robert’s lips.

“No, dearie,” Robert smiles in response, but not before Lacey catches the slightest flush rising from underneath his shirt collar. “Suffice it to say, you were not in the mood.”

He winks at her, and Lacey relaxes, relieved that he is not upset at what transpired the night before. Smiling back at him, she attempts to pull herself into a seated position, but her headache is unrelenting, and she winces in pain as she falls back onto the thin mattress.

“Here, let me…” Robert stands quickly, gathering one of the discarded quilts and folding it into a thick square, and lifts her head to place it under her neck. He does it again with one of the throw pillows that had fallen to the floor, and Lacey watches with wide eyes as he fusses about to ensure her comfort.

Nobody had ever fluffed her pillows before.

Finally seated in a relaxed, comfortable, upright position, some of the nausea subsides and Lacey’s empty stomach rumbles with hunger.

“Is that for me?” She flashes a small, timid smile, as she points to the soup and tea. She knows it is, but she doesn’t want to seem presumptuous. In all honesty, and despite the hangover, she is feeling really good right now. Happy, almost, if she hasn’t forever forgotten what happy feels like.

Robert watches Lacey fidget as she sits on the edge of the cot, mesmerized by the striking beauty of her face. Her makeup is smeared, her eyes bloodshot, and her lips chapped, but he is enchanted; a more perfect face he is certain does not exist. Her cheeks are full and smooth, prominent cheekbones softly contoured; her skin, though ruddy from the cold night before, is as pale and perfect as fine porcelain china.

 _Her eyes, though,_ he thinks, as she reclines once more, allowing him to place the tray on her lap. Her eyes hold universes within their depths, he is sure. When he looks at them he sees another world, and images of could-have-beens - lives yet unlived  - are so thick he can almost brush them away from his face. Robert forces himself to break her gaze and busies himself by uncovering the bowl of warm broth and unwrapping the saltine crackers to accompany it. He glances at her as he pours her tea, and watches her watch his hands as they prepare her meal.

Robert warms inside, knowing that she is watching him work, for he does not hate his hands. They are hands that fix things, repair what is broken; strong hands that can create and give care, long fingers that move nimbly over the delicate tea service. He drops two white cubes into the small cup, stirring the liquid to dissolve the sugar, and steps back, waiting for her to take a sip.

“How did you know how I take my tea?” she wonders aloud, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes traveling up his form to meet his gaze.

Robert starts, surprised that he had even prepared her tea, because it seemed second nature to sweeten the drink, but not at all something he would have known of a stranger like Lacey French.

Why had he assumed she even liked tea?

“Oh - I - I’m sorry,” he stutters, and reaches forward to pull the tray back and bring her something else.

“No, no!” Lacey stops him, covering his hand with her own small, cold one. “I like tea. And I’ve always taken two lumps of sugar. I just can’t believe you would know that,” she says.

“Oh, good. Good.” He’s at a loss for words, ridiculously pleased to have pleased her.

“Thank, you, Mr. Gold,” she says, flashing him a wide, dazzling smile.

Robert feels her small hand cover his, so cool, so soft; a little clammy from being unwell. Her pale skin contrasts with the darker olive tan of his own, and his thumb involuntarily moves over the side of her little finger, a gentle mingling of their skins. The subtle motion is perfectly innocent and completely explainable, yet bursting with heat and energy and something else entirely.

Small beads of sweat begin to prickle at his hairline, and his eyes travel up from their joined hands to Lacey’s perfect face. Entranced, he drops to his knees beside the bed. She is staring back at him, her cerulean eyes glowing with a soft flame, a blue fire too hot for anyone but him to see. Her lips are parted, her jaw slack, and he finds that they are breathing in the same pattern, they’ve fallen into a rhythm all their own, and his thumb continues to caress her finger as he is drawn toward her by some inexplicable force - invisible, inaudible, undetectable, but  _oh... oh is it there._

Robert moves slowly, almost not at all, and as he begins to tilt his chin down to take her lips with his, she jerks back at the sound of his little bell, spilling a few drops of soup on the sheet.

“Aye, someone is here.” Flustered, Robert answers the unspoken question., He stands and brushes imaginary dust off his suit coat.

“Yes, I’ll um.. I’ll eat my soup,” Lacey offers, reeling from the almost-kiss, flushed and hot and so _very hungry_.

"Okay.” He smiles down at her tiny body surrounded by his old sheets and pillows, and he knows in that moment that she belongs here, nowhere else, not ever. “I’ll be right back,” he says as he turns to leave.

The heavy clacking sound of expensive heels draws nearer, and Gold strides through the doorway as Lacey spoons lukewarm soup into her mouth. _Gods, that’s good_ , she thinks, letting the liquid coat her dry mouth, soothing its way down her throat. She wonders who has arrived to interrupt their peaceful interlude, but she shrugs, leaning back to enjoy her meal, and wait for his return.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When last we met, Regina experienced a ripple in her curse, a worrisome event to say the least. Lacey had been rescued by Gold, and they shared a sweet if not slightly awkward breakfast. 
> 
> Now Regina confronts Gold, and Lacey returns home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well.... it's only been four months since I have updated this story! I do apologize and promise to make the updates a bit more frequent (and consistent.) Thank you for reading and sticking with me!
> 
> I am honored that this fic has been nominated for Best Golden Lace in The Espenson Awards! Wow! 
> 
> Thank you, as always, to MarieQuiteContrarie, the best beta in the world. :)

“Regina,” Gold greets his visitor with mock enthusiasm. The town’s ambitious and meddling mayor was both his closest ally and worst enemy. As the two most feared residents of Storybrooke, they made a strange pair, keeping the other at arm’s distance out of both necessity and self-preservation. As the mayor, Regina held the key to any development or taxation of his numerous properties, and as the richest man in town, Gold was her re-election sponsor every four years. It was a cold, conniving game they played, mundane yet precise.

 

Regina Mills saunters towards him, trailing an impeccably manicured finger along the glass display case to gather the dust that had settled there.

 

“Mr. Gold, you really ought to have this place cleaned,” she smirked, then glanced down at her smudged index finger. “You should get a maid.” She steps up to the counter.

 

Gold stands perfectly still on the other side, hands folded and resting on the cool glass, his grim facade never once cracking.

 

“I don’t like it when people touch my things,” he explains, his voice monotone but menacing. “Now, dearie, how may I help you?”

 

“Oh, right down to business this morning, Mr. Gold? I thought we could chat a little, you know, perhaps get to know each other a little better?” Regina bats her eyelashes once. Getting under his skin could provide all the answers she needs, and she wouldn’t have to tip her hand and bring up this morning’s occurrence.

 

“Why are you in such a hurry, anyway? Do you have a girl back there or something?” Regina leans forward onto the counter, stretching blood-red lips into the warmest smile she could muster. She lowers her lashes and squeezes her breasts together between her crossed arms. “Do you want to have a girl back there?”

 

Mr. Gold openly stares at the mayor, wondering if she has finally, truly gone mad. Regina’s mental state was always a concern for him, as he sensed she was often on edge, as if she were waiting for the world to collapse at any moment. Regina Mills needs something big, he thinks, if this is her fist play.

 

“I’m flattered, Madame Mayor, but uninterested,” he clips, not moving a muscle save for the smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

 

Regina stands up, straightening the lapels on her suit jacket as she rises. Not once flinching at the rejection – a tightness inside her unclenched with relief at his quick dismissal - she reassumes her usual, business-like manner.

 

“Mother Superior came to see me the other day,” Regina lies easily, the words rolling off her tongue without preamble.

 

“Oh, and what did the old bag of nails need this time?” Gold fiddles with his cufflinks, his distaste for women of the cloth evident in his sharp tone.

 

“Really, Gold.” Regina steps back and rolls her eyes. “How can you dislike a nun?”

 

“Where ever there is tragedy in this world, religion cannot be far behind,” Gold counters. “I’m assuming they are in need of funds for some addition to the convent?”

 

“Actually, they have the capital they need. They are looking for an off-grounds facility, one to renovate - one to rent.” She provides the foundation she needed for her web of lies. “The Order is looking to open a halfway house.”

 

“And you are going to allow that in Storybrooke?” Gold was all-out incredulous now, narrowing his eyes as if he could see through her. “What is your play, Regina? Why do you want to help them bring more reprobates into our fair town?”

 

At a loss, Regina glares at the man. The why did not matter, she has all the information she needs. Gold seems to have no inclination of any so-called tremor, nor did he appear any different than the man he had been for the past twenty-eight years. Satisfied that her world was indeed intact and secure, she decides to leave.

 

“You know what? Never mind,” Regina flips her hair as she turns to leave. “We can get along just fine without… you,” she says over her shoulder as she flings open the door and walks into the cold, sunny morning.

 

~~~~

 

Lacey was completely still, straining to hear the conversation in the next room. The cold, angry sounding male voice she heard from the other side of the curtain certainly couldn’t belong to the sweet, gentle man that had watched over her all night. Maybe he _is_ as horrible as they say, she thinks. A chill comes over her, her stomach churning as though she would vomit again, and her eyes dart around the room, looking for a bucket or the entrance to a restroom.

 

She takes a deep breath to calm her nerves as she rises from the makeshift bed and pulls on her skirt. Her tights are ripped, so she throws them into her purse. Bundling her scarf about her neck, she pulls on her thin leather jacket as Gold steps back into the workroom.

 

“I… uh…. I need to be going,” Lacey stammers softly, embarrassed by her attire and a little worried about walking home in the cold.

 

“Are you sure? Won’t you get cold? Do you live far?” Gold hands flutter up then fall, his instinct to keep her here giving way to his more reasonable nature.

 

“We live just about the flower shop, my father and I,” Lacey says as she pulls on her boots. “Just a couple of blocks from here.”

 

“It’s freezing out there, you can’t go like that,” Gold protests, although he knows that she will not stay. No one ever stayed with him for long, except for those sorts who needed or wanted something from him. And even those poor souls, they made their deals and left, desperate, scared - eager to get away from the town monster once they’d secured whatever they required.

 

Normally, he relished his privacy. He enjoyed - _loved_ \- instilling fear into the town residents, trapping them with airtight deals and the means to pursue his interest in their collateral. No one dealt with Gold because they wanted to. He was their last option. _Was he hers? Was she his?_ He feared that if she left now, like this, the spell would be broken, and tomorrow would come and she wouldn’t remember him, she wouldn’t remember those tiny sparks that flew just for a moment… tiny, bright reminders that their lonely, mundane lives could be more.

 

 

~~~~~

 

Lacey stumbles up the ice-cold stairwell to the landing, picking through her purse for her keys with frozen fingers. It was freezing out, and she chastizes herself for the tenth time since leaving Gold’s shop that she had not accepted his offer to let her borrow his coat. She knew his reputation, and didn’t want to face her father in “the monster’s” overcoat. With trembling fingers and chattering teeth she let herself inside the only slightly warmer apartment.

 

She drops her purse and keys on the dining table, and her eyes dart around to begin surveying the damage. Empty beer cans were everywhere, and torn cardboard cases littered the floor. A half-empty bottle of cheap tequila stood open by the stove, and Lacey’s eyes watered as the stench of puke filled her nose. She walks down the short hall to the bedroom, her father’s room, her eyes cast downward in anxious anticipation; she didn’t know what she would see but she knew it couldn’t be good.

 

Holding her nose with two fingers, she raised her eyes up as she entered the room. Dirty laundry was scattered about the floor, and she had the fleeting thought that she was glad not to have removed her boots yet. Her father was laying face down on his bed, and the light of the window half-covered with an old sheet cast an eerie shadow around his body.

 

“Dad! Dad!” Lacey yells to the immobile form. “Get up!” Lacey moves closer, tiptoeing around dirty clothes and papers and discarded food. As she leans closer to her father’s prone body, she realizes that the shadow was really vomit, blood-tinged and mucous filled, and her blood runs ice cold at the sight.

 

“Oh my god,” Lacey whispers to herself, and using all her strength, rolls him over so that she can see his face. “Oh my god, oh my god” Lacey chants as she tries to find a breath, a pulse, anything that would save her from the worst news. She places two fingers to the filthy, puffy skin of Moe’s neck, right where she thinks the pulse point is, and tears of relief begin to flow as she detects a faint pulse.

 

Rushing out of the room, Lacey digs her phone out of her purse and punches in 911. Soon, the operator is on the line, and Lacey recites the answers to the familiar questions… _no, I wasn’t here, I found him this morning….. um, looks like beer and tequila…. I don’t know, I got home maybe 20 minutes ago…._

 

Storybrooke is a small town, the hospital only two miles away, and Lacey hears the siren of the ambulance over the disinterested town of the operator. It’s not the first time an ambulance has answered a call at the French residence, and Lacey slumps against the wall sobbing as she wonders if it will be the last.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lacey deals with the aftermath of her father's drinking, and tries to find a little comfort of her own. Gold tries to leave well enough alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note, this chapter also deals with alcoholism and abuse. I promise, things will start to look up for our babies, just... well, thank you for your patience. :)
> 
> Thank you to MarieQuiteContrarie for being an awesome beta and writing partner and friend.

Lacey rubs her eyes with cold fingers and struggles to refocus her tired gaze on the documents on her lap. Her knees shake slightly, not so much from cold as from shock, and the clipboard rattles, alerting all in the waiting room to her distress. The emergency room nurses followed the normal protocol for her father: intubation, oxygen, IV fluids, and the typical tests. This time, however, was different; the young doctor on call had informed her of her father’s advancing cirrhosis. He needed hemodialysis; treatment to begin immediately.

Lacey’s blood runs cold as she scans the hospital bill.  _ Amount due provider: $6,704. _

Six month’s rent.

They could eat for a year on that amount of money.

Lacey feels an odd floating sensation, as though she is watching herself read the invoice. She scrawls her name robotically on the black line for “Responsible Party.” She rises from the cushioned waiting room chair, not feeling her legs move as she somehow makes it over to the payment window and slides the clipboard over. She is silent, guarding herself carefully, and with an odd sense of pride in her composure, she turns and exits the waiting room.

~~~~~

“Here, Dad, lean forward.” Lacey huffs with exertion as she tries to settle her father on their worn couch, attempting to make him comfortable in the hopes that he will rest in front of the television. She tugs a large pillow behind his back as he grumbles.

“You need to rest. I can find a movie or a football game for you to watch,” she suggests, trying and succeeding in keeping her tone light. She arranges her father’s medications on the table, and brings him a large glass of water and some crackers.

“Ah, you’re a good girl, Lacey,” her father mumbles as she fusses over him. Lacey smiles at the smallest hint of praise, a glimpse of the father she once had. “Have you seen my wallet?”

“Yeah, it’s in the bag with your clothes from the hospital,” she says. “Hang on, I’ll bring it to you.” She placates him, grateful that he’s too weak to be unkind, and straightens a blanket around him.

“Thanks, pretty girl.” Her father attempts to smile but Lacey feels as though he has forgotten how, the edges of his lips twitching and failing to stretch into his puffy, red cheeks. She doesn’t remember the last time he really smiled at her, but she suspects it was long ago, in a life that she can’t quite recall. She retrieves the wallet from the clear plastic bag the emergency room staff placed it in and brings it to her father. He has begun to flick through the cable channels, the lights and sounds from the old television are an almost comforting hum in the quiet apartment.

Lacey hands him his wallet wordlessly and turns to go because  _ good god she needs a shower _ , but he stops her with a hand on her arm.

“Here, honey, why don’t you go pick us up a couple of burgers from Granny’s,” he says.  Surprised, Lacey accepts the money he hands her, two twenty-dollar bills, soft and slightly damp for reasons Lacey refuses to guess.

“Okay, Dad,” Lacey agrees. “But this is too much,” she says as she hands him back one of the bills.

“Well I also need a case of beer and you should get yourself some of that wine you like.”

Lacey’s arms drop heavily, the weight of the purpose for the money now pulling her down, and she stares at her father incredulously, tears threatening to bubble from her tired eyes.

“Dad, you just got home from the hospital,” she says softly, shakily. “I’m not buying you beer. Or wine. Or anything.”

“Oh, come on, Lacey, it’s just beer. And you can stay here with me to make sure I don’t drink it all,” he pleads, his anxiety evident in his voice. He is an addict, she understands, but there are things she is willing to do for her father, and things she won’t. Like standing by while he drinks himself into an early grave. Lacey chokes back a sob. If she loses her father, she will have no one.

And although loneliness is a constant companion, Lacey isn’t quite ready to be officially all alone. Lacey’s tears begin to flow and she squints as her vision swirls and flows with her sadness.

“No.” She steels herself for the verbal onslaught, heels dug in, her stubborn nature and the tough love she knows he needs lending her strength.

“Lacey-” her father’s voice booms, rising in tone at the end in that way parents do when they’re warning their children.

“ _ DO YOU WANT TO DIE?” _ Lacey screams at her father, unable to restrain her emotions, unable to ignore her breaking heart. She knows the answer, of course, she knows he gave up long ago. But she couldn’t face the truth, not yet…not when everything seemed so wrong between them, not when everything seemed so hard.

“You bitch!” Moe kicks his leg out at Lacey, hitting her thigh and causing her to lose balance. She falls over the fake wooden coffee table, knocking over the water and the medication, and scrapes her back against the sharp corner as she falls to the floor. Struggling for a moment to stand, she does finally, slowly, and taking one last look at her father. She stares intently into his cold, hard, colorless eyes, before she turns, grabs her coat, hat and gloves, her purse, and leaves.  She dodges the remote control he hurls at the door before she slams it shut and bangs down the stairs out into the cold.

Lacey makes it two blocks before realizing she still has the forty dollars wadded in her hand from her father’s wallet. That money, plus the twenty-seven she has in her purse, should get her a decent meal and a distraction, she thinks. She smiles wickedly, the idea of using her father’s drinking money to buy herself a little pick-me-up stoking the fire of rebellion that resides in the deepest corners of her soul. It’s a warm, fun, self-medicating companion, her rebellion against nothing and everything; her pain is a friend that never insults her, never shuns her, never kicks her out or calls her names.

~~~~~

“Wow, don’t you look… rested,” Ruby comments snidely as Lacey slides onto the barstool at the lunch counter at Granny’s. It’s two in the afternoon, and the diner is quiet, only a few patrons sipping coffee and reading, or gossiping over dessert. Ruby’s comments hold no bite, though; the two young women have a natural bond as Storybrooke’s “bad girls.” They help each other whenever they can, and while they would not consider each other best friends, they understand each other, which is all either one of them wants.

“It’s been a long… night. And day,” Lacey says, resigned.  Ruby’s gentle teasing strikes a chord. Her hair is limp and greasy and she could  _ really _ use a shower.

“Yeah, you left the Rabbit Hole and I thought you were going with Keith,” Ruby prompts, curious but not really interested. Lacey is a girl who could take care of herself.  No judgment, either; Ruby has her own closet full of skeletons.

“Ah, no,” Lacey stated, flatly, and with finality. There was nothing to talk about regarding Keith, and even if there were, Lacey didn’t kiss and tell.

“Hungry?” Ruby asks, motioning to the lemon meringue pie on the stand and the coffee pot she just finished rinsing, ready for a fresh brew.

“Yeah, I am,” Lacey’s eyes brighten and she is grateful for the change of subject. Her stomach clenches as she realizes the last thing she had eaten was Gold’s delicious and comforting soup. She shakes her head slightly, not wanting to allow herself to think - to dream - about this morning, not now, when it already seemed like forever ago.

Ruby slices an extra-large wedge of the pie and puts it in front of Lacey, then fills her mug full of freshly-brewed coffee. Lacey spoons two heaping mounds of sugar in, stirring it a little, and sips before taking a large bite of pie. The bitter of the coffee and the sweet of the meringue marry in her mouth, a delicious coupling of flavors. She smiles at Ruby, a genuine smile, and points her fork at the remaining pie on the stand.

“That’s delicious,” she says, her eyes twinkling at her almost-friend.

“I’ll let Granny know,” Ruby smiles in return. “Do you need anything else? This is on the house,” she leans toward Lacey conspiratorially, as if the $3 meal was a big deal.

 

“Can I use your shower?”

~~~~~

Lacey looks in the mirror as she smooths the tight black skirt over her hips. It is too long, falling almost to her knees, but tight enough to still be almost indecent over her curves. She is much shorter than Ruby, but curvier, and borrowing Ruby’s clothes make her feel almost like a different person. They both favor the edgy appeal of black skirts and tight anything, and Lacey  pairs the skirt with a fitted white button-down that she has unbuttoned past her black lace bra. Patterned tights and her three-inch heeled ankle boots complete the look and she turns to study her pert ass as Ruby emerges from the suite’s small bathroom.

“Wow, you look almost professional,” Ruby quips as she strolls into the room, her wet hair wrapped in a towel on her head.

“Well, you know what they say, dress for the job you want rather than the job you have.” Lacey winks at Ruby in the mirror, her mood vastly improved with a full belly and a hot shower.

“Yeah, you could probably get $500 tonight instead of $50,” Ruby chides as she drops her robe and begins to pick out lingerie from her dresser drawer. Lacey stares at Ruby’s naked reflection in the mirror, and an ache coils in her lower belly at the sight. She squeezes her thighs together at the thought of what the night might bring - it wasn’t necessarily Ruby that was turning her on (although she wouldn’t say no) it was the prospect of feeling something.

Tonight, she is going to fill those voids in her soul all the ways she knows how, and arousal stirs within her.

Turning from the mirror, she reaches into her purse and pulls out a small plastic snack bag, the kind mothers tuck into brown paper bags with treats for their children, and dangles it in front of Ruby’s face.

 

“Want some?” she shakes the bag invitingly. Ruby is helping her out, allowing her to shower, change, and loaning her some clothes, and she even offered to let Lacey stay tonight, understanding without knowing that Lacey couldn't go home right now. The least Lacey could do was offer her friend a bump of the cocaine she purchased with her father’s money.

“Lace, you know I don’t touch that shit.” Ruby rolls her eyes at the bag. “Where did you get it?”

“I’ll not reveal my sources,” Lacey shrugs and dips her finger into the bag, gathering a small mound of the powdery drug on the tip of her index finger. She inhales, the tingling sensation of the powder burning the tender skin inside her nose, the chalky taste as the drug drains down the back of her throat, soothing the monster of loneliness and insecurity growling inside her soul. Her eyes fly open and she smiles, her first real smile in two days, as she feels the beast inside retreat, the drug taking effect.

“Are you coming out tonight?” Lacey’s voice is suddenly brighter, happier, and she whips Ruby’s thick wool trench coat around her shoulders and ties it at her waist. It is also too big, but she doesn’t care, thankful for a friend who has a steady income and who doesn’t mind loaning out her closet.

“Yeah, later,” Ruby says, pulling on a black thong and a matching mesh lace teddy that cups her full breasts and darkens her pink nipples. Lacey admires her friend, all long and thin and gorgeous. “Spencer is coming over first, though, before he goes home.”

Lacey’s brow furrows for a moment as she realizes Ruby is waiting for a quick fuck with a married man, but then she softens and quirks an eyebrow at her friend. She, certainly, is not one to judge.

“Okay, well maybe I’ll see you out,” she says, and stops by Ruby, who is now lounging on the bed, a copy of Vogue in her hands. “You look hot,” she smiles at her friend, then dips down to kiss her fully on the lips. Lacey’s tongue swirls against Ruby’s full lower lip for ultimate effect. “Mmm, be easy on him.” Lacey winks as she pulls away.

“Go, get out,” Ruby teases, swatting Lacey’s backside as she turns to leave.

~~~~~

Gold pokes his fork at the cooling veal cutlets, then stabs the last young carrot and pops it in his mouth. The food is excellent, of course, as it always is; he is fortunate to have the money for these easy and expensive meal delivery services. But the evening is cold, and dreary, and he hasn’t had an appetite all day, so consumed by thoughts of this morning he was.

He shouldn’t have asked her to stay; he should have done the right thing and called an ambulance when he found her in the front of his shop. He should have returned her to where she belonged, because the moments he spent with her only made him want more, and more isn’t an option for him - it never has been.

He must stop thinking about her. It would only further her destruction.

He destroys everything he touches, so he cannot not touch her.

He sips the last of his scotch and chases it with ice water, dousing the heat of the expensive libation with cold reality. He pushes back from the table, the legs of the fine Queen Anne dining chair gliding gently over the Persian rug, and he takes his cane from where it rests against the side of the table as he takes his plate to the kitchen. He stops, out of habit, and turns to the large glass curio in the far, dark corner of the stately dining room, completing his nightly ritual.  Tonight, though, he walks to the display and turns on the soft, incandescent light of the cabinet, blinking back tears as two smiling faces appear in the dim lighting. Two pairs of happy, soft brown eyes stare back at him, their joyful expressions frozen in time, a picture of happiness that is not real, not anymore.

He drops his head in shame, as that is all he knows to feel anymore - that, and loneliness, and fear. It is why he is the way he is - the town monster, the landlord with no ethics or emotions, the old, angry pawnbroker with an acerbic tongue and airtight deals. It keeps all who seek him out at a distance, and that is far safer - for him, for everyone.

His thoughts return to Lacey, and her soft skin, and the fullness of her lips, and the endless depths of her blue eyes. For a moment, he was not alone; for a moment, he had a purpose.

For a moment, he cared. Why? The skin at the back of his neck prickles with the odd sensation of his heart actually beating in his chest, as though thoughts of her brought him back to life.

_ No _ , he chides himself.  _ Forget about her. _

He steels himself, pulls back his shoulders and swallows the lump of emotion down his throat, back into the bottomless, dark pit of his being. Turning on his heel, he leaves the room, dropping the plate into the sink, and walking straight out the door.

He needs a drink.

~~~~~

Lacey bounds into the bar, feeling great, feeling happy, feeling sexy. God, she loves when she can get her hands on a little blow. It makes everything better and it puts everything into perspective. She isn’t the good girl, the dutiful daughter that she knows everyone thinks she should be. She isn’t the studious type, she didn’t do well in school, and though she pretended for a time, it isn’t who she really is.

Lacey is a small-town girl just looking for a good time. No strings attached. It is easier that way, and she certainly has enough problems without adding true friends or real lovers to her already complicated life.

No, Lacey is happy just the way she is,  _ thank you very much. _

She sits at the bar, and it is early enough that most of the seats are empty, the only other patrons being the other smelly town drunk, Leroy, who leered at her as she walked in, and two older women on the other side of the bar, sipping white wine spritzers and laughing.

“What’ll it be? Will asks, and Lacey is grateful that Keith is off tonight.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Lacey says, airily, as though it isn’t the only thing she wanted right now. “How about a Jack and Coke?”

The bartender mixes it expertly and quickly, garnishing the fizzy brown drink with a maraschino cherry, and places it in front of Lacey. She pulls a long sip from the tumbler, and pops the juicy cherry into her mouth, the sweet, sharp flavor exploding over her tongue like a man blowing his wad. She smiles to herself, the pleasures of the flesh having always been where she can hide, where she can rest and relax and forget.

She notices Leroy watching her out of the corner of her eye.

“How you doin’, Leroy,” she asks loudly, calling him out on his unwelcome staring.

“Well, I’m a lot better now, sister,” he says, slurring slightly and leaning in her direction.

“Wonderful. Now, can you look the other way, please?” Lacey stares back, her face expressionless, not caring about her blatant rudeness towards someone who quite obviously could use a little kindness in his life.

She hears Leroy mutter something under his breath, and he gets up from the barstool and makes his way to the back corner pool tables. She takes another large swallow to drown the tiny spark of guilt threatening her heart, and relaxes as the alcohol begins to seep into her system, relaxing the tense muscles of her shoulders.

_ See? I’m fine, _ she thinks, and refocuses her efforts on having a great night. She doesn’t need anything or anyone right now, she has everything she wanted - freedom, coke, alcohol.

Although, she could use a little companionship, and more money. The hospital bill has taken up permanent residence in her thoughts, and though she tries hard not to think about it -  _ just for tonight, please _ \- her brain can’t erase the image. Over six thousand, that’s what she needs, or what? They would come after the business, she assumes, knowing she and her father had nothing else for them to take. They have no money, no property; the only thing they have going is her father’s struggling flower shop and small greenhouse.

_ Stop it, Lacey _ , she tells herself, before sliding into that familiar pit of despair. She downs her drink and orders another, pulling out her phone to text Ruby to meet her; surely her rendezvous with the married stiff is over by now.

~~~~~

Gold pulls open the back door to the Rabbit Hole, trying to not be seen frequenting Storybrooke’s only bar. He isn’t exactly sure why he cares, but he figures he doesn’t want to scare off the few patrons, because then Keith couldn’t make rent, and he would lose money. Yes, even though he owns the building he was bad for business, and this way, he won’t even have to talk to anyone.

Will notices him slide into his booth, his usual spot, and brings him his bottle of Macallan and a glass. With a nod, Gold acknowledges the drink, and Will takes his place back behind the bar, where Gold watches him pour the French girl a drink.

He is unnerved by her presence and draws upon his cruel and judgmental nature to quell his unwelcome excitement.  _ She doesn’t learn _ , he thinks to himself, and sips the smooth, spicy scotch as he watches her stare down Leroy, the only other regular in this pitiful establishment.

Gold twirls the glass with his long, thin fingers as he takes sip after sip, the events of the day along with Lacey’s presence at the bar feeding his anxiety, keeping the scotch from truly taking the edge off. She hasn’t seen him, yet, and he prefers to keep it that way, not wanting to get any closer to her than he is now, hoping that she will leave, so he can enjoy his scotch in peace. After a few minutes she rids herself of Leroy, and is alone; occasionally she looks down at her phone and fires off a text. She’s probably making plans to meet someone here, he decides, but his interest peaks when he sees her leave the bar.

Gold scoots into the corner of the booth, away from the harsh overhead light, hoping she won’t see him as she passes. But she turns before she walks by him, heading to the ladies’ room, and he sighs as he realizes she isn’t leaving. Throwing a hundred on the table, he prepares to leave, wanting to get out before sees saw him, until he hears yelling coming from the bathroom.

A woman’s scream pierces through the din of the bar, and many of the patrons hush and look toward the restrooms, in the direction of the disturbance. Gold rises swiftly, grabs his cane, and limps toward the women’s bathroom. Flinging the door open, he stops in horror as the scene unfolds before him.

Leroy is holding Lacey down by her neck and hair, her face marred with a red handprint that is already turning purple. With his other hand he fumbles with his fly, which is already halfway down. He looks up in fear as Gold grabs him by the shirt and drags him by the collar into the hall, landing two punches in rapid succession. Leroy howls, begging for him to stop, but Gold has only gotten started.

His protective instinct is on fire, the horror and fear and pain on Lacey’s face searing his brain, and he switches from fist to cane. Vaguely aware that people are shouting and screaming, his world narrows to nothing, nothing but pummeling Leroy into a bloody pulp. The beast within rises – anger, fear, hope, despair - all of it comes roaring to life, spurred by rage, happy to finally have control.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Leroy's assault, and things heat up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was getting pretty long so I have split it into two chapters. Hopefully you won't mind. :) 
> 
> Thank you, as always, to the amazing MarieQuiteContrarie for cleaning up my messy writing and being an all around wonderful person. If you haven't read her stuff, you should check it out! :)

Lacey is dimly aware of the cold, hard floor of the dirty women’s room at the Rabbit Hole. The left side of her face is burning and throbbing; her vision blurs as she blinks her swollen eye. Her body is tense and rigid from shock, and it takes all her strength to pull herself to her knees. Tears are streaming down her face of their own volition, or maybe she is crying, she isn’t sure which. She hears a commotion on the other side of the bathroom door; voices from a distance are yelling and a sickening thwack rises above the din, the sound of metal slapping flesh.

Rising on wobbly legs, she pulls the door open and focuses on the dark, almost motionless form of Leroy on the floor. Looking up, she watches in awed horror as Gold brings his cane down again and again into Leroy’s ribs, the gold-plated handle flashing in the dark bar’s hallway. Adrenaline is a heavy beat in her blood and she rushes to his side, her legs moving almost involuntarily. She grabs his arm, stopping him and steadying herself. At the first touch of her fingers Gold freezes, his eyes wide and unfocused, flaming bright with rage.

“Stop! Stop! He’s not worth it. Please…”

Lacey begged for the man on the floor, who had only minutes before hit her, who had almost…

But he didn’t, Lacey thought, relieved beyond measure, and while she could care less whether the stocky, smelly man lived or died, she didn’t want his blood on her hands, and certainly not on Gold’s.

“Please,” she pleads softly, staring into Gold’s fevered eyes. They were so strange, so different from just earlier that morning in the back of his shop. Who is the real Gold? Is hethat polite gentleman, or this savage beast?

Gold starts, a cry of angry protest building in his gut, but as he looks into Lacey’s clear, frightened eyes he relaxes into her grip and lowers his cane. Pulling himself to stand taller, he straightens his tie and waistcoat, and brushes invisible lint from his coat sleeves. He turns to her, cold and impenetrable, and nods slightly, holding her gaze. He spins on his heel, and as quickly as he had come to her rescue, he is gone, the door banging behind him as he disappears into the night.

Lacey turns back to Leroy, watching his unconscious form suck in labored breaths. Satisfied that her attacker is not dead, she steps over him without another glance, and turns to face the small crowd of onlookers that have gathered around the scene.

“Fuck this,” she huffs quietly, and bends to grab her purse. She stalks out the door into the same dark night that her protector had, and she has to force herself not to run, not to chase after him, because she knows the best course of action is to go back to Ruby’s, to sleep, to block out any memories of the evening, to deny that anything of significance had occurred.

But as her legs carry her down Williams Street toward Gold’s mansion, she knows she won’t rest until she’s thanked him for what he did for her tonight. Summoning courage she doesn’t realize she has, she lifts her cold knuckles to the heavy oak door, knocking purposefully, preparing herself for whoever -whatever- she might find on the other side.

~~~~~

"Here, try this," Gold says as he places an ice pack to her cheekbone.

Lacey inhales sharply as the ice burns against her red, wounded skin, but relaxes as the pain begins to recede. She leans against Gold's antique hand-carved Biedermeier in the great room of his house, finding the chair surprisingly comfortable in spite of its formality. Gold stands rigid and silent in front of her. The only sound in the hushed, dark room is the pounding in her head. He places a glass of water carefully on the mahogany coffee table along with two small pills.

"Thank you," she says, glancing up at him then quickly looking away, but not before regret and embarrassment flash over her features. "I - um, yeah. Thank you for everything," her smile finally reaches her eyes as she relaxes. Gold is staring at her, but she isn't uncomfortable under his scrutiny, in fact it makes her feel valued in an odd, remorseful sort of way; as though it is too little too late, that her soul and her body are far too damaged to be of any concern to anyone.

" 'S no matter." He lowers himself to sit on the edge of the couch, their knees bumping slightly as the fine fabric gives way under his slight weight.

"It is," Lacey protests, but she doesn't look at him, shame beginning to overtake her. What must he think of her? No money, no job, no family. She has nothing to offer to repay him for his kindness, and the familiar anxiety of worthlessness churns in her gut. Not kindness, foolish girl; pity.

"You've helped me out of bad spots twice now, in as many days." her voice shakes slightly, and she clears her throat to disguise her nerves. She chuckles softly. "Perhaps you do that for all the girls in town? Knight Protector of Storybrooke?"

She looks at him, and believes she sees a faint twitch in the corner of his mouth before he shifts in his place to face her more directly.

"I'm no knight," he replies, rubbing his palms over his knees, and Lacey wonders if he is as stricken as she is. He is completely walled off, though, and Lacey wonders for a moment what lies beneath his cool, calm exterior. Who could penetrate his mantle, and what treasure would they find within? Lacey's anxiety gives way to a curiosity she doesn’t recognize, a need to look beneath the outer shell of the person beside her.

"You are to me." She corrects him as she sits up straighter, bringing herself to eye level with him. She is sincere, how many men would have come to her rescue at the Rabbit Hole? Surely no other that she knew - in fact, they probably would have accused her of asking for it. Lacey doesn’t concern herself with mundane things such as reputations and gossip in Storybrooke - gods know the tiny town thrives on the ill fortunes of its inhabitants. At the very least she would have to deflect snide attacks about what she was wearing. But Robert Gold had simply appeared, asked no questions, assigned no blame.

Whether Leroy would make a full recovery remained to be seen, but Lacey pushes those thoughts from her mind. It surprises her to realize that she doesn't want any repercussions to come to Mr. Gold, she can’t stand the thought of him being arrested because of her. He is her knight, having saved her from possible death one night and a fate worse the next.

"I mean it," Lacey says and drops the ice pack to the floor. "Thank you for saving me." She places her hand on his forearm, and he watches her fingers as she plays with the fine, soft wool of his suit coat. He he won't meet her gaze, though, and his refusal feels like an odd challenge. All Lacey wants is to look into his eyes, to see the man who hides within.

"Hey," she whispers, bringing her other hand to the side of his face, her fingers caressing the rough stubble of his jaw. His eyes shut as he finally turns to her, and when they open, Lacey is struck by the fire there, the glowing amber of his irises so strange, yet so familiar. Her eyes fall to his lips which are parted slightly, and as her gaze returns to his their eyes lock and she leans forward slightly.

It is all the invitation he needs.

Robert brings his hands to her neck, grasping either side just beneath her jawline, and slowly outlines her full lower lip with his thumb. Lacey's tongue darts out to moisten her lips and his mouth crashes to hers so quickly she gasps in surprise. He pulls away instantly, his cheeks flushing bright red, his hands falling from her neck to her shoulders.

"I-I am sorry," he stammers, "I shouldn't-"

"No! No... please, I like it." Lacey pleads with him to continue, every cell in her body coming alive and pulling toward him, as though a magnetic force existed between their two lonely souls. She hooks her knee over his, a bold and desperate gesture. His face darkens but he leans back in as though he can't help himself. “I want you to kiss me…”

Chills run down her spine as he captures her lips in his again, the heat from his mouth warming every inch of her body, the sweet taste of him making her crave more, more, more, until Lacey is gone, lost in his embrace, drowning in desire. She succumbs to his kiss - his warm, rough tongue sliding against hers sets her body alight, the small flame kindled the day before in his shop now fully engulfed her core. She feels herself throb and shudder between her legs; the ache is empty and she needs him there, needs him inside her, whatever she can get, fingers, tongue, cock. She wants it all, she desires nothing less than for his whole being to possess hers, for as long as he would, before the sun rises and she leaves and this all falls away into the nothingness of her life.

Her decision made, Lacey hikes one leg over his and straddles his lap, smiling as she feels him gasp and pull away from her kiss. She can’t stop now, she is too far gone, but she pulls back nonetheless. She is unused to men holding back, at least not carnally. Every man in her memory has been more than eager to accept any physical advances from her; it was when feelings and emotions and thoughts became involved that matters grew complicated. So Lacey has learned to deny all those, she masters the art of repression far more than even she can understand. It sometimes feels as though there is an entirely different person chained away in the deepest chambers of her heart, one screaming to be released, her own pleas falling on deaf ears.

Gold squeezes his eyes shut, hoping to block out the harsh reality of what he is doing with the beautiful, damaged girl straddling his lap. Mere hours ago she had been assaulted in the worst way, no matter that he had come to her rescue he was no better than that drunk Leroy. No, he was worse, judging her from afar, lurking in the shadows as he counted each sip she took, waiting for her to fall again, selfishly, so that he could be the one to pick up the pieces.

"You don't... you don't want me, Lacey," he whispers as he pulls away, and her face falls, the first time she hears him speak her name is also the first time he denies her.

"I disagree," she says, as she rubs herself on his thigh, the rough wool of his trousers a delicious scratch against her moist, sensitive skin. "Let me make my own mistakes," she says, breathlessly, her eyes closed as she relishes the pleasure of his muscular thigh between hers, her hips riding up and down his leg.

Lacey opens her eyes and stares straight into his, her gaze melting every frozen fortress he has built around his soul.

"I've proven myself quite capable at that...." she trails off, pressure building inside her, her ability to form words lost as sighs of pleasure bubble up from her core. Her eyes flutter and close, her mouth slack and lips full, as she grinds against his leg.

Gold stares into her pale face, her deep burgundy lipstick having been smeared by his kiss. He brings one thumb up to wipe the corner of her mouth, an intimate act that causes Lacey's mouth to water, and her eyes fly open once more, her gaze locking with his. She leans in and captures his lower lip in hers, sucking hard as she circles her tongue around the plump flesh. Releasing him with a pop, she becomes aware of his hands on her waist, and she scoots forward to nestle her hips closer to his, and gasps as she feels the hardness of his erection through his suit pants. She rocks against him, rubbing her heated core against his, her skirt riding up around her hips. She smiles as an hurricane of emotion and desire storms inside her, relieved to finally feel something.. Every touch between them is a lightning bolt of desire, striking her low in her belly, its white-hot current racing straight to her clit, now plump and swollen with arousal. She feels herself drip, and she is sure she has ruined his expensive trousers, the knowledge stroking her ego in time with the roll of her hips.

She drops her hands to his where they rest at her waist, pushing them down to her thighs before she tugs at her blouse. She lifts it over her head, discarding it on the floor, and watches Gold inhale sharply at the sight of her small but full breasts in the black lace balconet.

His fingers trail back up to cup her through her bra, pushing her breasts higher and closer, and his nose comes between them, inhaling the faint, sweet vanilla scent of her. A more beautiful face he has never known, but something about the way her eyes reflected the pale moonlight reminds him of someone, a memory from another time and place. Oh, he’s known of her for a while, now, but until that fateful evening a few days ago he had not given her a second thought.

His hands begin to massage the tender underside of her breasts and the lace tickles her nipple as he mouths over her right breast. His breath is hot, the humidity of it seeping through the thin lace, creating a cooling friction and Lacey can’t take it any longer. She reaches behind her and unhooks the clasps, allowing the thin straps to slide down her arms.

Gold misses nothing, yet remains intent on her right nipple, kissing and nipping at it. As her bra falls from her frame he grabs it, freeing her arms. Quickly, though, he changes the game, pushing her forearms behind her, wrapping the thin bra around her tiny wrists and tying it in a half bow.

It isn’t a tight knot, and Lacey knows she could be freed easily and at any time, but the act of dominance by the sharply dressed man beneath her fans her flames hotter. She burns between her legs, the ache in her core almost painful. She needs him, she needs to be touched by him, played by him, taken by him. Aroused beyond the ability to focus, her mouth gapes open as he begins to suck hard on her nipple, pulling it further into his hot mouth. His deft fingers play with the other, rolling and pinching, and Lacey feels each nerve in her body electrify, humming with pleasure and desire, every cell of her being alive.

He releases her breast with a pop, and looks up through hooded eyes behind a lock of his hair. She glances down at her nipple, glistening with his saliva in the lamp light, red and swollen and tender from his attentions.

“Fuck,” Lacey whispers, her breathing heavy and rapid. She frees her hands and brings them to Gold’s face, her fingers gently pushing his hair out of his eyes as she stares into them, and lowers her lips to his, kissing him long and deep, her tongue searching every delicious corner of his mouth, drowning in his hot, rich flavor.

Gold’s hips thrust up, tilting Lacey forward and the new angle allows her to feel more of him under her. She counters, pressing her hips down and forward, and the pressure causes Gold to gasp and break their kiss, his eyes wild as he watches her begin to unbuckle his belt.

Whoever she is, one thing is certain: Lacey French is much more than a poor, drunk florist's daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry to end it there... but it's the anticipation we crave, right? ;)


End file.
